


Whiplash

by blithesea, womenseemwicked



Series: Drivin' After Midnight [4]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Collaboration, Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, Fist Fights, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, POV Billy Hargrove, POV Steve Harrington, Physical Abuse, Roleplay Logs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-16 05:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13629816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithesea/pseuds/blithesea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/womenseemwicked/pseuds/womenseemwicked
Summary: It’s been nearly a week since Steve Harrington climbed in through Billy’s bedroom window, and Billy still hasn’t forgiven him. Not for the two breathtaking orgasms, or for the long, sweet kisses, but for falling asleep and nearly fucking it all to pieces with his criminal carelessness.





	Whiplash

**Author's Note:**

> Billy POV by ficsandfuckery ([women-seem-wicked](http://women-seem-wicked.tumblr.com/) on tumblr), Steve POV by blithesea ([bites-heal](https://bites-heal.tumblr.com/) on tumblr).
> 
> Happy Valentine’s, darlings.

It’s been nearly a week since Steve Harrington climbed in through Billy’s bedroom window, and Billy still hasn’t forgiven him. Not for the two breathtaking orgasms, or for the long, sweet kisses, but for falling asleep and nearly fucking it all to pieces with his criminal carelessness.

Neil hadn’t caught them that time, but just a few more seconds hanging around looking put out and craving affection Billy wasn’t qualified to give even on a good day, and he would have. He’d heard the window when Steve went, and come to investigate. Billy had lied his way out of it, half-naked and covered in way too much spunk and hoping against hope that Neil wouldn’t step into the room and _smell_ it, but it’d been far too close for comfort.

Over the weekend Billy had worked out his aggressions on his weights and driving hard - he’d made it halfway to Indianapolis in half an hour - but when school started again Monday he’d taken to giving Steve the cold shoulder. He’d nearly lost it when Harrington had actually _touched_ him on the way to his locker - flicking back a knowing smile like they were just _dating_ now and _what did it matter if people knew?_ What a fucking laugh. But instead of shoving him off or telling him to take a hike or _pushing him into the wall and kissing his stupid smirk away,_ Billy had just turned and slammed his locker shut and walked away.

So that Friday, when school lets out and Billy’s finally out at his car, smoking a cigarette before he heads home alone because Max and her little friends are all being picked up by Mrs. Wheeler today and he’s got all the time in the world, Steve Harrington is about the last person he expects to come bother him. After all, even an idiot would have to see after a week he isn’t wanted and back down, _right?_ It isn’t until he hears the crunch of gravel under expensive tennis shoes that he realizes how naive that sort of thinking makes him sound.

\--

Steve feels like a fucking teenage girl, and it’s all Billy’s fault. After they spent that night together in Billy’s room he’d spent all Sunday mooning over him and wishing he would call, with high hopes for Monday, but when he got to school, Billy was ignoring him. Completely. As in, Steve having to check he hadn’t received a severe head injury lately and dreamed up all that shit about Billy liking him after all.

Because, _fuck_. That night Steve had been sure Billy couldn’t get enough of him. The thought had warmed him all the way back home, even in his own bed where he took another long nap, tired out after his night time excursion. Billy had liked him just fine, then. But he hasn’t even glanced in Steve’s direction all week. Considering how much time Steve has spent throwing himself in Billy’s way, that _has_ to be deliberate.

 _Fuck it,_ Steve thinks by the end of the day. He’ll just talk to Billy in the parking lot. There’s nothing wrong with that. People won’t know how much Steve has been wanting to kiss Billy all week long. He’ll ask Billy if he wants to meet somewhere later, and they’ll do the kissing and everything then.

Billy is standing alone against his car when Steve finds him, hair catching the light kind of beautifully as he sucks on a cigarette slow and luxurious like he thinks it’s a Cuban fucking cigar.

“Hey.”

\--

Billy looks up from his boots but doesn’t answer. He drags a lungful of air through his cigarette and breathes out the smoke in Steve’s direction.

He looks away. Not out of weakness, but to check at least that no one’s around. Because he doesn’t trust this boy to keep his damn mouth shut in public. And okay, maybe also because he can’t stand to meet Steve’s pretty brown eyes.

\--

“Oh, I don’t even rate a ‘hello’ now? Jesus, you really know how to make a guy feel special,” Steve scoffs, but the joke falls flat. Billy doesn’t even smile. Steve searches his face for _something_ , but doesn’t find it. Billy’s face looks like it’s been carved of wood.

“Listen, I was thinking,” Steve starts, though he wasn’t, not really. He has to come up with this shit right now on the fly, and it probably shows. “There’s this little road off Kerley Street, by the old water tower? Maybe we could, I don’t know. Meet up there later?”

\--

Billy flicks the butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his heel.

“You thought that, huh?” he sneers. “What, you worried about privacy now? You worried we might get caught?” In one swift movement he has Steve up against the side of his car and is leaning threateningly into his personal space. “Harrington, you might just be too dumb to live if you think I’m gonna whore myself to you again after the stunt you pulled last time.”

\--

Yeah, okay, Billy calling him dumb still stings a lot more than it should. Because it’s true. He doesn’t have a clue what Billy is talking about. _What stunt? Making you come twice in under an hour?_

“What’s the matter with you?” he says, only with the way Billy is crowding him into the car, it comes out more like a squawk. “What… what the fuck did I do? Nothing happened!”

\--

“Yeah _no_ thanks to you.” Billy slams his fist on the cool metal beside Steve’s shoulder. “What, you saying you didn’t stick around to hear me explain the come stains and the open window to my old man? That didn’t _entertain_ you?”

The hopeless innocence on Steve’s face only serves to anger Billy further. He pushes off the car and walks away two steps before quickly turning back and taking a swing at Steve’s infuriatingly perfect face with a strong backhand. Steve’s so shocked by it he doesn’t come back up for a second. So Billy leans over to growl at him:

“You entitled piece of shit, I bet you didn’t even think about how much fucking danger you put us in. How much danger you put _me_ in. You just wanted to get off. That was all that mattered, wasn’t it? You’re lonely and horny and you know a guy who gives good head, so why not visit him in the dead of night and not bother leaving ‘til fucking daylight?!”

He hits Steve again and this time he can see the blood welling from his lip where he cracks it. It’s satisfying, but not satiating.

“I can’t tell if you’re selfish or you’re just that fucking _braindead_ , Harrington. But I know one thing,” he hisses. “If it’s this dangerous when we’re not even _fucking_ yet, I don’t wanna stick around for what comes next.”

\--

Steve can’t even defend himself from Billy’s fists. They come out of nowhere. Not because Steve didn’t see him swing, but because he honestly didn’t think Billy would hit him like that - crackling with rage - ever again. And unlike the last time Billy stood over him, raining pain and hellfire down on his face until Max stepped in and saved his fucking life, this time it feels like Steve has earned it - once Billy’s words start sinking in. Like Billy wouldn’t fly off the rails like this if Steve hadn’t made him, by being _so stupid_.

He feels a bit sick to his stomach when he looks back at that night the way Billy describes it. Can he deny being lonely and horny, and wanting to see Billy, who really does give exceptional head? Not one bit. And knowing that no matter how much Billy may have seemed to enjoy it _then_ , it’s clear that none of the good stuff survived in his memory.

If it ever even existed outside of Steve’s head.

And Billy blames him for it.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, “Billy, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t think--”

He reaches for Billy, touches his shoulder, and realises that was a bad idea right before Billy’s fist connects with his jaw.

\--

“No. You didn’t _think_ ,” Billy growls, shaking the tingling out of his hand because _what kind of idiot throws a punch at someone’s jaw?_ “Even now you come up to me in the fucking parking lot in broad daylight and think you can just proposition-- What if Max showed up while we were talking about meeting up, huh?” He plants a fist in Steve’s side and the solid sound of it is better than any punching bag. “If that got back to my old man…?”

\--

Steve wants to defend himself from that accusation, at least, but there’s not enough air to reply, Billy’s punched it right out of him. He forces himself to take a deep breath, and to take a step back, unclench his fists, do his best to look non-threatening. He is _not_ going to engage, this isn’t _like_ that night, Billy is going to come to his senses and fucking stop any moment now.

“I _knew_ Max wasn’t going to be here, dammit, all the kids are at the Wheelers’ today,” he starts, though his fucking lip is starting to feel numb, and is Billy even listening to him, or is the sound of Steve’s voice just making him more angry? “I wouldn’t have talked to you otherwise!”

\--

“You don’t get it, do you Harrington?” Billy sneers. Steve isn’t even _trying_ to fight back, and Billy almost can’t remember what it was he even saw in this arrogant, small-town prick in the first place. Is _this_ pathetic shit what he risked _everything_ for a night with? Or two nights and a phone call he’s _still_ getting shit for the charges on? Billy’s fist connects with Steve’s chest - slightly curled over as he still is from the last hit - with a wild yell that Billy doesn’t care if someone hears, but that he knows no one will. He and Harrington got out late because of basketball anyway, and no one sticks around at Hawkins High on a Friday.

“I’m not some cheerleader you can drop in on whenever you fucking like,” Billy growls, and pushes Steve back up against the car because he’s stooping a bit, clutching his chest. He holds him by the neck and forces their eyes to meet. “D’you hear me? I’m not your fucking _girlfriend_ , Harrington. I’m not your _fucking--_ ” He lands another punch in Steve’s gut, but his hand on Steve’s neck keeps him from doubling over. “ _Plaything!”_ he spits.

\--

 _He is not gonna stop,_ Steve realizes, feeling nausea rise inside him, _either fight back or get the fuck away!_ Biting back on the bile, he tries to wrench out of Billy’s grasp, but he can see the move was a mistake, sees Billy’s fist coming and tries to at least turn away from the impact, and the hard left aiming for his cheekbone connects with his temple, pain blossoming all over, turning into numbness, the momentum spinning him to the side, and while he still tries to sort out the ringing in his ears, the ground rushes up to kiss him. Little bits of gravel are sticking to his bloody lip while he oscillates between which way is up.

\--

Steve stays down this time, but Billy still has more to say, so he pushes the pretty jock over onto his side with the toe of his boot, forcing Steve to look back up at him.

“There are certain people in this world you stay away from, Harrington,” he bites out bitterly. “If you know what’s good for you you’ll just find yourself a pretty girlfriend and go back to being King Steve. Leave me alone and forget any of this shit ever happened.”

\--

Fuck. Billy’s words bite through the haze in Steve’s mind. He has to blink away a bit of dirt that is irritating his eyes.

“Maybe I don’t fucking want to,” he spits out, glaring up at Billy. “I don’t _want_ to forget, you fucking asshole.” He closes his eyes and tries to brace himself for the next kick, the next blow. He doesn’t even care.

\--

For a second Billy thinks he’s hearing things. But then he looks, really looks at Steve’s bloodied face - at the tiredness and the anger and the _honesty_ there. The heat of battle suddenly leaves him and he just feels cold and lost and ashamed. He reaches down an arm to help Steve up, and when Steve eyes it distrustingly for a second he sighs and simply pulls him to his feet, perhaps a bit too roughly. Steve hisses and doubles over a little. Billy lets him.

“Why,” he says, staring at the side of Steve’s bloody face like the answer is somewhere in the tracks running down from his brow. He laughs bitterly and looks away. “Why the fuck would you say that?”

\--

Steve takes a shuddering breath. _Fuck,_ even that hurts. He doesn’t fucking want to have this conversation, not like this, not when he’s fucking seeing double still from Billy’s fists. “I just-- it doesn't have to be like that, okay? I’m not--” He shakes his head, but it does nothing to clear his head. If anything it makes it worse.

“Fuck, I don’t know.” There’s a stinging in his eye, and when he tries to wipe it away, his fingers come away bloody. “Shit.”

~~\--~~

Billy frowns. Okay, yeah, that looks bad. He reaches out to turn Steve’s face so he can assess the damage without thinking, but Steve flinches away instinctively. Throws him a distrustful look through the blood dripping into his eye. A look he recognizes, not so much from seeing but from feeling. That’s the same look he used to make when his dad came near him after a fight. Back when there was still trust and respect to make cracks in. The very thought sends Billy reeling. He pulls away to give Steve the space that he needs, and collapses a little on himself.

“Fuck…” he chokes, and feels panic at the feeling of tears in his eyes. Glances away quickly.

He paces and glances back at Steve’s bloodied brow, his nose, the split in his lip. None of it is half as bad as that first fight was - not physically - but this time is so much worse, because this time Steve didn’t even fight back. This time Steve trusted him to stop, and he _didn’t_.

“You shouldn’t,” Billy spits, so disgusted with himself he can hardly stand. He looks away again. Walks off a few steps before coming back. “I’m just like him,” he laughs bitterly to himself. “One good thing in my life and I fucking beat the hell out of--” He has to pause to catch his breath, but when he does he makes the mistake of looking at Steve again and loses his mind anew. “Why didn’t you fight back? Goddammit Steve,” he’s crying now and he doesn’t fucking care. “You look like hell, dammit! You should have fought me back! What if I’d--?”

\--

Steve has already seen Billy completely lose his shit once in his life. Back in November, when Billy had pummelled him into a stupor. But what’s unfolding in front of him this time feels so much worse. After the last couple of weeks, the memory of Billy unhinged had seemed like something Steve had exaggerated in recollection. Like fine, the guy had beaten him up. But the whole aura of crazy around it, Billy laughing through his own blood, the fucking violence of it all, had been shoved to the edge of that memory.

Now Steve is brutally reminded of that night, and even though Billy has finally stopped hitting him, just watching him fall apart at the seams is scary as fuck. So much worse this time because Steve knows what prompted it, knows he did a bad thing and that it brought out this side of Billy. He’s torn between wanting to take Billy’s hand to apologize a million times for being a careless asshole, and getting the hell away from the loose cannon that Billy has turned into.

Where the fuck is all this coming from? What could make Billy Hargrove, a confident bastard if ever there was one, tear into himself like this? Something Billy says tugs at his mind. _Just like him_. Just like who? It seems important to understand, but Steve’s jaw hurts and he feels stupid and raw at watching Billy say horrible things to himself.

And then Billy starts to cry, fuck. Steve didn’t even know Billy _could_ cry, he’s always either flirty or angry or horny or sarcastic or smug, but sad? Scared? It makes a tiny part of Steve want to hug him and tell him things are alright. _What a fucking joke._

“Bill,” he mumbles, wincing at the pain in his jaw. Billy is looking at him, tears in his eyes, but Steve is fairly sure he isn’t getting through to him. “Billy,” he tries again, louder this time, searching Billy’s eyes.

“D’you think we could… maybe get some ice or something for this shit--” He gestures at his face.

\--

Billy shuts up and sniffles embarrassingly and _shit,_ he’s going off on Steve like this is _his_ fault, while he just stands there bleeding and no doubt _sore_ and Billy wants to kick himself but instead he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Of course. And a first aid kit. Bandages, alcohol, all that. Fuck. Do you think the office is still open...?” he suggests, but glancing back at the empty school it doesn’t look likely. _We’ve got that shit at home_ , he knows, but taking that from the medicine cabinet would look fishy as hell and no way is he bringing Steve home with him again so soon. Especially not like this.

\--

Steve shakes his head no, winces. “Nurse would report us,” he mumbles, and then he’s struck by the fucking insanity of it all, one moment he and Billy fighting, going for the throat, and now they’re discussing fucking logistics? It makes Steve’s head hurt. He realizes how fucking tired he is.

Billy is standing way over there, miles away, and Steve wishes he wasn’t. He moves towards Billy, takes his hand. There’s no one around to see it, and Steve fucking needs the contact now. But then he remembers what Billy said, what he _yelled_ , during his tirade - that Steve is way too careless about all this shit - and he drops Billy’s hand, feels ashamed of just thinking of himself. _Again_.

“Do you know where I live?” he says with some difficulty. His lip is starting to swell.

\--

Billy shouldn’t. He’s never been there, never been invited, and Steve was long since done throwing parties before he moved into town. But--

“I have a general idea,” he admits shamefully.

\--

“Can you drive us there?” Steve asks, and alright, he doesn’t want Billy to say no, why the hell did he phrase this as a question? “Come on,” he says, and turns towards the Camaro’s passenger side door.

\--

Billy realizes halfway to his own door that he should’ve got Steve’s door for him. _Shit._ But it’s not the end of the world, he reminds himself. The end of the world is gonna be saying goodbye to Steve at the door to his house, his disapproving parents on the other side of the door.

They make it to Dearborn Lane in record time, the music low and hastily scrambled to something Billy hopes Steve won’t hate. It’s a miracle they don’t crash for how fast he’s driving and how often he glances over at Steve’s various injuries helplessly, worried he’s going to pass out.

But they get there. And on the way out of the car Billy’s fast enough that he gets Steve’s door for him. And when they get to the door Steve lets Billy fish the key out of his pocket and unlock the door, and Billy’s fingers hurt like hell but he does it because his fucking fingers don’t deserve a break after what they did to Steve. _Again._

\--

Steve slumps through the lounge, trying not to bump into anything. “Hey mom, I’m home!” he calls out, doing his best to make his voice sound normal and not like his upper lip is split and his jaw is throbbing.

“Alright, sweetie,” she calls back from somewhere in the living room. Probably from her reading corner, going through magazines. Good. She’ll be too distracted to come greet him in person.

When Steve glances around, Billy is still standing at the open door. “Come on!” Steve mouths at him and turns towards the kitchen. He plods all the way to the fridge and, sweet heaven, finds a bag of frozen peas in the freezer.

“Fuck,” he moans when the bag hugs his face like a cool kiss.

\--

Billy follows Steve’s beckon into the house belatedly and quietly shuts the door behind. Inside he instantly feels swallowed by the immensity of the house and of his inferiority to the boy that brought him here. But he shrugs that down and follows Steve to the bright kitchen.

“What else do you need?” he whispers, glancing over the cabinets. “You thirsty?”

\--

“Mmmmmh,” Steve sighs into the peas. He hides his face in them for longer than is particularly comfortable, because he isn’t sure how to look at Billy after this. What to say to him. He still has that nagging need to apologize to Billy. But it feels odd to say it now, when Billy is no longer yelling at him.

“Nah, I’m good,” he mutters, looking down at the floor. Talking still hurts, but the frozen peas are numbing his jaw quite nicely.

\--

Steve looks like he has no intentions on moving any time soon, but his blood is getting all over the bag of peas and is in imminent danger of dripping onto the tiles as well, so Billy takes charge.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” he reminds him. “Where’s the first aid? D’you wanna do this here?”

\--

“No,” Steve shakes his head, and winces from the stab of pain. He’s already feeling better just being home, the slow moving and less talking is gonna take some getting used to.

“Upstairs,” he says, because distracted as his mother might be for the moment, he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to give her the chance to walk in on them while Billy is patching him up. She might not believe that he fell down some stairs this time around.

He just can’t get himself to move quite yet.

\--

Billy bites his lip. Steve doesn’t look stable on his feet. Not wholly unstable, either, but he looks like he could use some help. Billy just isn’t sure if his help is _wanted_. So he mutters:

“Tell me to back off and I will.” And he softly brings Steve’s free hand around his shoulders, propping him up away from the kitchen counter and onto his support. “Okay?” he asks.

\--

Steve swallows, his throat suddenly gone dry (and fuck, even that hurts), and shrugs. “Sure,” he says, affecting carelessness, but his heart is beating hard in his chest. He steers them towards the stairs, and the way up seems to take forever.

“You don’t have to stay, man,” Steve says, because he can’t bear the silence between them. Billy being gentle and helpful is so odd, it makes Steve itchy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He is probably still angry at Steve. Steve dimly remembers saying he was sorry, and Billy not having any of it. Nothing’s really changed since then, has it?

“It’s ok, I’ll just slap on some band-aids or whatever.”

\--

“No,” Billy says, way more abruptly than he means to. And instantly he regrets it when he feels Steve tense beside him. “Steve, you need help. And it doesn’t have to be from me, but then you gotta tell your mom or somebody. I’m not leaving you like this.”

\--

Steve feels his eyes prickle. He looks aside. He wants to yell at Billy, _oh **now** you care_? But his nose starts running and he wipes it on the back of his hand without thinking, then hisses when he comes up against the side of his face that had been Billy’s primary target.

“Fuck that,” he says in a low voice. “What does it matter, anyway.”

\--

Billy wants to fucking cry. He wants to get on his knees and beg for forgiveness. Wants Steve to yell at him like he deserves for this. But Steve needs help first. And Billy’s peace of mind is so low it’s not even a priority. So he settles for taking Steve’s shaking hand with an apologetic frown, and reaching up to wipe his nose carefully as he can with his own soft, threadbare sleeve.

“Which room is yours, pretty boy?” he asks softly.

\--

It’s petty and ugly, but Steve doesn’t _want_ Billy in his room now. Not when he’s spent a good portion of this morning there before school, jerking off to the thought of Billy’s eyes and mouth and grin and ass. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Billy was going to see his room for the first time when they were gonna spend all night fucking on every available surface. And he wasn’t supposed to remember if Steve’s bed sheets were green or blue by the end of it all.

“Bathroom,” Steve nods at a nearby door. It’s the master bathroom adjacent to his parents’ bedroom, not his own, but he doesn’t have any first aid stuff in his anyway. His mom has a whole cabinet worth of that shit. Steve sits down on the toilet lid, closes his eyes, and gestures to the cabinet in question.

“Knock yourself out.”

\--

Billy can do this part. He’s done this for himself more than once, and while in worse shape than Steve’s in. Still, it’s a little different when it actually _is_ your fault - doesn’t just feel that way.

He starts with a towel. Warm water. Dabs gently at the places where gravel and dirt hitched a ride until all that remains is Steve’s bleeding face. He clears the parts of his skin that aren’t bleeding but are covered in blood. Knows that so much of feeling better comes from feeling clean.

At first he tries to touch him as little as possible, cautious of triggering that flinch again, but he has to push Steve’s hair out of the way of his cloth so often that by the end of it he’s sort of just stroking it and it seems to be okay.

He brings out the iodine with Steve’s direction after that and they both know the sting that’s coming, but it doesn’t make Billy feel any better about it as he wets a cotton ball with it and kneels in front of his charge again.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, as much to himself as to Steve, and he dabs the cut on his chin with the swab.

The flinch hurts, but he does it again with the cut on his brow, and a little on the one on his lip. He thinks about quickly putting some on his own bloodied knuckles, but decides against it. He doesn’t deserve that peace of mind.

Band-Aids come next. Luckily, with all the blood cleared away, Steve only needs two. The majority of the punches will leave swelling for a while, but nothing major. _The real danger isn’t the physical damage you caused,_ he tells himself angrily. _Trust doesn’t scar the same._

After all of this Billy wipes the blood off the bag of peas, and holds it back up for Steve’s face with a little sad attempt at a smile.

“There,” he says. “That should hold you.”

\--

“Thanks,” Steve mumbles. He feels stupid again. Billy taking care of him felt so good, he wishes it wasn’t over yet, and that’s a freaky, ridiculous thought to have. But Billy has been so gentle. How fucked up is it that this is the nicest he’s ever been to Steve?

 _Makes sense, though_ , Steve thinks. _He’s only nice because he feels guilty for beating the shit out of me._

He sighs and shifts in his seat, feeling more tired than ever. Billy puts a hand on his knee, maybe to soothe him, and Steve startles at the sight of it.

“Billy,” he says helplessly, looking at the bloodied, swollen knuckles. “Billy, your hand…”

This is all so fucked up, Steve can’t fucking deal anymore. He buries his face in his hands so Billy doesn’t see him cry.

\--

Billy pulls his hand back shamefully, but the moment he sees Steve’s shoulders shake he forgets that and is touching him again.

“Hey,” he says pulling his hands from his face and kissing them softly before he knows what he’s doing. “Hey… It’s ok,” he says, because it’s the thing to say when you wipe someone’s tears away with shaking thumbs, but it feels like bullshit and he can’t bullshit Steve anymore.

“I’m sorry, Steve…” It’s mumbled, and miserable, and hardly even audible, but that’s what happens when you try to half-sob words. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry I did this to you baby, shit. I ruin everything…”

\--

Billy’s words make Steve’s stomach turn. He angrily wipes the tears from his eyes, not even bothered by the pain anymore. “No, listen,” he demands, holding Billy’s good hand tight. “Don’t say that, ok? Because _I’m_ fucking sorry, Bill. I was just, you were right--”

He takes a deep shuddery breath, tries to focus. “It’s just, you made it look so _easy_ , at first, in my car. Like it was something we could just do together, and I never thought about boys like that before. You were so…”

Steve swallows. It feels like there’s a lump the size of California in his throat. “I wanted it to be easy like that, with you,” he tries to explain. “And you’re right, I didn’t fucking _think_. I fucked up, I know that…”

He shrugs. Sniffs. Doesn’t know how to go on. “I’m really sorry.”

\--

Billy’s chest feels tight and his eyes are stinging as he shakes his head and brings Steve’s hand back to his lips, not really kissing it so much as pressing his lips to it softly.

“How the fuck can you be sorry after what I did?” he mutters disbelievingly against the soft, warm skin. “Why are you even letting an uncontrollable piece of shit like me near you?”

\--

 _What the fuck kinda question is that?_ Steve realises this is Billy’s _Why?_ from before, come back to haunt him. He tries a little harder this time to answer it, because if Billy doesn’t even know _that_ …

“You’re not,” he says, looking down. “I used to think so, but I know you a little, now. You’re not like I thought. Not like that.”

—

Billy frowns. Can’t tell whether to be distrusting or immensely grateful for the surely undeserved compliment - one he’s never gotten before. He starts to pull away, but Steve catches his good hand and holds it tight. It feels so good, so grounding, that Billy’s urge to press him further, to question what on Earth would make Steve think Billy isn’t like this, all but fades away.

“I still did this though,” he sighs, carefully bringing his left hand to the clear side of Steve’s face. Now that everything’s calmed down and they’ve been touching for at least half an hour straight, Steve doesn’t flinch at the contact, although he does look a little wary. “There’s no excuse for that. I hurt you. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

—

“Alright,” Steve mutters, “So we’re both fucking sorry. That means we’re cool, right?” Maybe it’s pathetic that he even wants things to be cool between them, but. He can’t help it.

“And besides,” he shrugs, wiping the last bits of wetness from his eyes. “It’ll heal. I’m pretty good at that.”

\--

Billy laughs miserably, tracing a finger over the little scar Steve still bears near his hairline from their first fight.

“Yeah, you are,” he murmurs. He looks him in the eye painfully. “You shouldn’t hang around with someone who makes that necessary though, Harrington,” he says.

\--

“Well, I shouldn’t do a lot of things,” Steve replies stubbornly. How had Billy phrased it, back in his bed? “Like let someone tell me who I can and can’t fuck.”

\--

Billy’s solemn face cracks into a surprised half-grin and he laughs, mirth and disbelief making strange sounds in the back of his throat.

“You reckless asshole…” he groans appreciatively and lets his head fall against Steve’s knees, slumping into his own exhaustion and overload of emotions. He can’t fight Steve on that point. And he doesn’t want to. _I want you to fuck me._

\--

Steve strokes Billy’s hair, lets the curls run through his fingers until Billy has calmed down for a bit. He feels a lot calmer, himself, now too.

“I’ll be more careful in the future,” he promises Billy. “I can be so fucking careful you wouldn’t even know I ever think about you, at all.”

\--

Steve’s fingers feel so good in Billy’s hair, against his pounding head. Soft and gentle. Billy wipes the wetness from his cheeks in annoyance and sits back up, pressing into Steve’s hand. He picks up the forgotten, now just vaguely cold peas from the counter and holds them gently up to Steve’s tender face.

“You have horrible taste in men, just so you know,” he says with a wry smile. “And you look fucking exhausted. Can I take you to your room now if I promise I’m not trying to get into your pants?”

\--

“Whereas your taste in men is fucking stellar,” Steve gives back, still mumbling the words but having an easier time with it now. The cooling really has helped. And yeah, a nap sounds like the idea of the century. But he still doesn’t want Billy in his room, petty as that may be. Steve pushes himself to a standing position, groans when that stretches the ache in his side where Billy punched him. He’s gonna have to look at that one in the shower later.

“As if you could keep your hands off me if you tried,” he rasps, taking Billy’s good hand in his and making for the door. “I’d rather go watch TV anyway.”

The trek downstairs feels a little easier now, maybe because the promise of stretching out on the couch and finally getting to _relax_ spurs Steve onward. He toes off his shoes, pushes Billy down on the beige suede monstrosity, drops the remote in Billy’s lap and has his eyes closed even before his head comes to rest on Billy’s shoulder.

\--

“Hey,” Billy chuckles, adjusting himself into the dangerously cushy couch so that Steve’s more comfortably leaning against his chest rather than his shoulder. He wraps his arm around him a little and smiles when Steve settles into it with a little hum. “So, what’re we gonna watch?” he asks, trying not to gawk too much at the Harringtons’ massive TV. _Jesus, how fucking rich are these people?_

Steve makes a non-committal noise and gestures for Billy to figure it out, so Billy turns on the TV and flicks through the channels lazily ‘til he finds an episode of Miami Vice playing and realizes Steve’s asleep. He turns the sound down a bit, just so he can hear his breaths - in and out, slow and just a little bit labored against Billy’s chest. He can’t help but run a hand softly through Steve’s hair at that, and adjust the really quite thawed peas against his forehead.

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” he mutters softly. “I’m never gonna do this to you again, I swear.”

Movement catches his eye in the doorway suddenly, and Billy almost shits himself, but Mrs. Harrington smiles and holds her hands up in a playful mockery of “I’m unarmed, don’t shoot” she seems to think is very funny and charming, so he relaxes a little, nevertheless wishing Steve had fallen asleep in a little less gay a position _right after_ he said he was gonna be careful.

“Some asshole rearranged his face in the parking lot after school,” he explains, pulling the soggy bag from Steve’s face so his mother can see. “I came to help clean him up and get him sorted. And now…” _Now he’s fallen asleep on me and it’s not my fault - or his - that this all looks very gay._

Mrs. Harrington frowns a little, though not nearly as much as _his_ mother would’ve at the sight of her son’s battered face, and shakes her head.

“Stevie always was a very physically affectionate boy,” she says, and Billy can’t help but feel from the way she talks about him like that last time she really paid attention to her kid was when he was a “physically affectionate little boy.” Wonders if he’s just projecting. “Will you stay with us for dinner then, Mister…?”

“Hargrove,” Billy says, belatedly slipping on his mother-charming smile. “Billy Hargrove, ma’am. But no, I’m afraid I’ve gotta head home here soon or my dad will start to worry.”

“Oh that’s too bad,” Mrs. Hargrove simpers. “Stevie really doesn’t bring his friends over often enough. It’s been positively _ages_ since I’ve even seen _Tommy!_ Do you know Tommy, hon?”

Billy decides that he hates this woman, hates that she likes and misses _Tommy_ , and hates that he never before realized Steve might have it almost as bad as he does on the parenting front.

“I do, ma’am,” he replies politely.

But she’s already moving from the room, still talking as if to him but with no intent for him to actually hear or respond. Caught up in her own world and not seeming to mind if it makes her look fucking insane. Because it doesn’t. Somehow. To describe her as insane would be an insult to the insane.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, baby,” Billy mutters under his breath, glancing back down at the peacefully sleeping boy on his chest.

He glances at his watch.

“I really do gotta go,” he whispers. “I’m already on thin ice with my old man as it is.”

Billy sighs and carefully extricates himself from Steve’s _physical affection_. The older boy frowns a little and sighs as Billy sets him back down with his head now on a pillow, but doesn’t wake.

 _Will he hate me if he wakes up and I’m gone?_ he wonders, but there’s nothing for it. He has to go. And leaving a note out here where anyone could find it would be too risky.

“I’ll see you around, Stevie,” he promises, leaning down to kiss the top of Steve’s head softly, and then he’s out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is interested, there are mood-board things for each of the fics in this series up on Theo’s tumblr [here](http://women-seem-wicked.tumblr.com/post/170863806730/whiplash), great for reblogging and sharing with your friends ;)


End file.
